


Run Through

by Peoplesalad



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And all that jazz, Blood, Cannibalism, Gen, Gore, Vomiting, the nightmare stag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peoplesalad/pseuds/Peoplesalad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is a man who will forever be at the mercy of his own imagination.<br/>Five dreams in one night.</p><p>(Set back in season one, will update daily for the week.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rest

Will stared at the bed.

If he put towels down beforehand he could save himself from the ritual sheet-washing. Maybe If he just gave up and slept naked he could skip a laundry load all together, but then he would run the risk of sleepwalking his way into a public exposure charge. The law would have pity on him, but Freddie Lounds wouldn't.

He contemplated the sleeping bag again.

Will waited a moment before pulling twin towels from a drawer. He lay them out and slipped between them. For a moment he watched the dogs, curled up on their beds and favorite pieces of carpeting. One twitched with a small whimper.

Will wondered if it was having a dream.


	2. Rage

The world did not exist beyond the single residence. It was all barren gravel. The stream of red from a blonde woman’s neck made a fountain of the steps.

The door crunched in with a sturdy kick.

  
Will blazed through the house, spotted his target, and unloaded the clip. A swarm of ungodly bugs burst from the other man's chest. The room was thick with them now, singing with the pounding behind Will's ribs.

  
For a moment his vision was solid black, crackling of living static. They grazed his ears and hands, shattering the windows in an audible burst.  
Will kept his mouth in a tight, closed line.

  
When he could see the body again, he felt nothing. His own form lay on the floor, splattered against the cabinets. It was whispering the same word over and over again. Will fired a final shot.

  
When he looked to Abigail, she was the one with the gun. The walls had been eaten away, leaving nothing but gravel and a red kitchen floor.

 

Will opened his mouth to speak, but only one word would come out.

  
She matched the pattern of bullet holes with precision.


	3. Refuse

_One night only: Shrike and The Tickets._

  
The sign had grotesque lettering. Further along the street there were other advertisements which Will tried not to notice as he passed through the doors.  
It was louder on the inside.

  
Waves of people cheered in unison as something impressive happened on the stage Will was not yet close enough to see. He pushed past strangers as they did the same before the spectacle was in view. He waited a moment and clicked his pen.

  
The music was loud, the beat reminding Will of something his heart thumped out once during a panic attack when he was a child. Abigail helped another girl into the magic box while her father cleaned the saw.

  
He pressed pen to paper purposefully. It bled a black dot as words refused to come. She was wearing a red floral print, luminescent among the stage lights.  
It was breathtaking.

  
In an instant the pen was snatched and jabbed into his neck by someone unseen. He caught a glimpse of a familiar red mane holding a notepad full of words.


	4. Rot

The sound of wet chewing came from everywhere.

  
No matter where Will faced, it was always behind him. Sickly snaps of meat tearing free from bone. He swallowed. Something might have moved out of the corner of his eye. He turned, cursing the breeze that disturbed the branches. His fear felt abused.

  
Following the sound would be unproductive. He pulled his gun, mentally replicating the stance Beverley had shifted him into at the shooting range. He took a breath and fired into the dark, hoping to startle something.

  
A very distinct rustling turned him again, this time suspending him in the moment where his heart made no movement.

 

It stared at him with glassy eyes.

 

Will came back to himself in a wave, firing a shot. It did not move, blink, or make a sound as the bullet lodged itself in its flesh.

  
It stepped forward. Will stepped back, pressing against the tree that was not there a moment ago. It stepped again.

  
Will pressed the gun against the stag's head and did not fire.

  
It nosed his stomach. Will's gut lurched.

  
Warm copper surged up his throat. He failed to hold it down, choking on thick, unforgiving liquid. He kept his sights fixed on the monstrosity before him, spitting to the side.

  
It was unfazed. Patient. The open air chilled the drip of vomit caught on Will's chin.

  
His gut clenched again. This one knocked his knees from underneath him, landing in a kneel. The front of his shirt was soaked with wet, half digested meat. The bile stung his skin through the fabric.

  
He hunched over, desperately trying to clear his airway.

  
The breath on Will's neck was both close and distant as teeth relieved him of the back of his throat.


	5. Relax

The table was set with plates, silverware, and surgical equipment. Will tugged on his binds just enough to know that they were there. He could see the inverted faces of his colleagues above him, making polite smalltalk. Jack, Alana, and the usual suspects at the forensics division gathered along with others.

  
Will wasn't surprised to find his clothing was minimal, abdomen exposed for reasons he understood enough to not want to think about further. Polite conversation changed to the eager acknowledgement of someone out of his sight.

  
There was a welcoming and a shuffling of metal. Will pinched his eyes shut as the conversation turned to eager anticipation.

  
For a beat, there was nothing.

  
The knife bit into him. He screamed, and didn't move an inch. It had its way with his abdomen. There was an agreeable chatter above him as scalpel was traded in for spreaders. He thought of things to say while saying nothing, breathing heavily as open air grazed his exposing inside. Several utensils were at work at once now, everyone helping themselves to what looked nice. He almost wanted to tell them to stay away from his liver.

  
They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  
The scene left him slowly, first softening the vision of knives, then dulling any memory that he once had lungs. He couldn't laugh like them if he tried.


	6. Reach

Will stepped delicately. The floor was carpeted by loose satin. Any attempt at a speed would be a slippery mistake. The walls were lined with mounted knives, arranged perfectly against each other to fit as many as possible. Some were freshly used.

  
He kept his handgun at his side. Will imagined slipping and slamming into the wall, sliding down, catching every blade. It would shred him.

  
Back when he cared about which way he was going, he found himself walking the same circle three times before running into a branching path he was certain was not there before.

  
After hall upon hall of repetition, it didn't take much to notice something different. Will kept balance in mind as he allowed himself to walk more quickly.  
It came into view one aspect at a time. First light, then form, then content. It was a white display case containing the arm of Miriam Lass. Further down the hallway there were others, various organs clinically displayed.

  
Will stepped forward and was met with immediate regret as the floor slipped under him. He braced for the crack that never came as someone placed a sturdy hand on his back.


	7. Rise

“Have you ever thought of keeping a dream journal?” Hannibal was sitting across from Will in the usual fashion.

  
“I don’t much like the idea of keeping my nightmares for any longer than I have to.” Will searched the room for something to fix his gaze on. He looked at the stag statue, then quickly at the floor.

  
"Dreams are an exploration. They can reflect, or puzzle over something new, often in a way that we have difficulty understanding fully."

  
"I'm fairly certain that I've figured out the running theme of my dreams, Doctor."

  
"Maybe so." Hannibal tipped his head the smallest degree, leaning forward. "But you have not resolved it."

 

Will nodded, breathing out. He rested his head in his hands.

 

God, he was tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who checked this silly little project out while it was being updated ouo!   
> I hope you find a dollar on the ground.


End file.
